Miley Cyrus: Wizard Detective at Large
by munkyboywndr
Summary: Russians on American Soil! A musical duel in low Earth orbit! And what does it all have to do with the mysterious fedora? Miley Cyrus is on the case!
1. The Hat

**Miley Cyrus and the Case of the Missing Hat**

Prologue: Russians on American Soil (and Ice)

_1995, somewhere in rural Utah_

It was a beautiful and sunny winter morning. Snow coated some foothills surrounding a large frozen lake like powdered sugar on a donut, the occasional pine or blue spruce peppering the landscape to give off the impression that there was nothing to fear, and that this was as ordinary a day as any other. Two young women, one a brunette high schooler named Jennifer (17, tall and skinny), the other a blonde named Charise (16, short and skinny), had just finished strapping on their skates and were making their way out onto the ice, giggling as they went. This was truly a day to be rued by Satan for, despite all his efforts to ruin humanity, something as simple as sliding around a frozen patch of water was an activity that elicited all but total ecstasy from our two ladies, clad in fleece and leather. Jennifer, the more extroverted of the two, had worn mostly red and brown, save for an almost uncharacteristic black fedora, which somehow went well with her brown hair, skates, and mittens.

"Wait up!" cried Charise, her uncovered blonde threads of femininity billowing in the windy discharge of Jennifer's wake. She was clearly less experienced than her friend, as our blonde protagonist hesitantly made her way out onto the ice after her excitable friend.

"Skate faster!" was the only response from the brunette as she zipped to and fro into the center of the icy lake. She giggled under her breath, the frosty exhalation briefly obscuring her thin-rimmed glasses. She was having such a fine day! Out in the quasiwilderness with her best of friends, away from the teachers and the boys and the smoke… but then the ice beneath her feet cracked roughly.

"H-hey!" Charise exhaled loudly, hurrying to catch up to her friend, who now appeared to be in trouble. She slid across the ice with sudden efficiency, and scraped the surface with aplomb, though no one noticed. This was due partly to how ordinary and dislikable Charise was as a person, but mostly to the thing that had caused the ice to begin cracking so rapidly. Indeed, now the frozen water was ripping apart, and a large, black metal protuberance was ascending the water: it appeared to be a periscope.

Charise opened her mouth to cry out in alarm, but was interrupted by the horn of the thing now emerging from the depths of the water, which was comparatively quite loud and, indeed, jarring. "Hi," called a friendly, dapper voice: the hatch next to the periscope of the submarine had opened, and a young man with suave features, a dimpled chin, and wavy, dark hair was now addressing the young women. However, his contention was far from what is expected. "That's my hat you're wearing."

Charise opened her unsightly large mouth to retort inquisitively, but was again interrupted, this time by Jennifer. "So, you found me after all."

"You didn't make it easy," the man replied, his dangerously sexy looks positively exploding from the top of the submarine. His eyes, sadly for Charise, were focused on Jennifer—or rather, her hat. "You saw through me, all right. But not quite well enough. Because if you wanted to stay lost forever, you made one mistake." With that, the Adonis of a man protruding from the now-completely surfaced submarine lifted himself from the hatch and slid deftly along the sleek outline of his subterranean vehicle, onto some broken and uplifted ice, and past Jennifer and Charise, seizing and reclaiming the fedora in the process. "You took my hat. I _like_ my hat."

And with that, he walked away, leaving Jennifer speechless in search of a witticism to drop in retaliation. However, the man's entrance had been so unexpected, and his cranial décor reclamation so impressive, that she had no means of doing so. She was left standing there, in the cold, her hair now uncovered and partially glossed with frost, seething in awkward rage.


	2. Pop Idol Duel in San Francisco

**Miley Cyrus and the Case of the Missing Hat**

Chapter 1: Cue the Entry of our heroine: Go, Hannah Montana!

_2005, downtown San Francisco_

Miley Cyrus, exuberantly beautiful young woman, wonder singer from the mythical southeast, and infamously dangerous lover, was walking down the street in the murky, disgustingly moist backstreets of the Pacific Gateway. She was looking for someone—or something? This she did not know, for just moments before, the governor of California, an Austrian-accented, burly-muscled man with a penchance for fine wines and cheesy action movies, had been robbed of an important medallion. Sensing the perpetrator to be no pushover, he had first called for backup in retrieving it, and had hit #3 on his speed dial: Hannah Montana. He had always been a fan of her music, but he also knew of her incredible mystery-solving abilities. "Find my medallion, Ms. Montana," he had bellowed a bit too loudly, "und I shall reward you greatly! Ya!!"

The reward, as Miley had always believed, was simply the chase of the truth. She had agreed to find the medallion as quickly as she could once her flight from Mexico got into San Francisco. However, she had used a special ability to get from Monterrey to San Fran a bit quicker so as to get a head start on the criminal she was to locate and possibly destroy. Upon her arrival, she had quickly removed her clever disguise of the blonde wig and flashy cowgirl boots, switching instead for her naturally beautiful straight brown locks, and simplistic—yet strikingly fashionable—cowgirl boots. Using her mystery-solving compact, she had quickly narrowed down the search to three possible escape routes: the freeway that ran along the coastline, the road the circled around the governor's house, and a darkened back alley.

"I see! If the perpetrator was male, he likely would have chosen the freeway. However, the size of these footprints I have noticed on the sidewalk," she announced to herself, which gathered the attention of some onlooker politicians, "clearly indicate that the medallion thief was not a male at all!" This elicited some surprise and congratulations from the onlookers, but Miley paid them no mind—after all, there was a footchase to be had, and she was in no mood to explain her reasoning for having determined the gender of the thief. The trail easily led into the darkened alley. "Onwards!" she cried, surprising a nearby lobbyist.

The trail led into the vacancy between two large, towering buildings, with forbidding shadows and bad-smelling dumpsters lining the pathway to justice. "Damn!" Miley growled, noting that the trail had become twice as dangerous due to the foul-smelling odorous interludes. "Looks like I'm going to have to get serious!" Looking around to make sure that nobody was following her who may have figured out her pseudonym, she pulled out a portable microphone and speaker, and used one of her pop songs to clear away the tumescent grime that coated the walls of the alleyway. The raw power of her signature pop idolatry cleaned the alleyway: she had done it!

The pathway now clear for justice and apprehension, Miley jogged forth, and quickly came upon a shivering, cloaked figure. "Hey! You're at the end of the line, medallion thief!" she bellowed triumphantly.

"So!" the croaking and somewhat familiar voice from the cloaked figure came suddenly and clearly. "My attacks to your olfactory and sensible cleanliness were unsuccessful after all, and you've caught me." After having said this, the figure continued to shiver under the cloak.

"Hah! I used the power of my amazing music to clear away your traps, robber! Give up the medallion or I'll be forced to use my justice on you once more!" Miley was not to be distracted from the task at hand, and held out her hand somewhat stylistically to show that her teenage sass had not lost its infamous luster.

"Ho ho!" croaked the cloaked figure. "You presume too much, Miley Cyrus! Or should I say," the figure ripped off her cloak to reveal that she was none other than an evil rival! "Hannah Montana?!"

"Ahh! So you've found me out!" Miley countered, nervous that someone—nay, anyone—should become enlightened to this truth. "But you, Selena… what are you doing stealing medallions in the first place?!"

"Ha! Quit this foolish talking!" Selena Gomez, from under her dirty and cleverly disguising cloak, produced her own portable microphone and speaker. Her outfit, smartly trimmed to display only so much of her that was necessary to entice the masculine partition of their prospective audience, was endowed with glitter, sequins, and lots of flashy colors, was intimidating to say the least. She posed dramatically, and then continued "Let our singing powers do the talking!"

"Hmm! The fans might get hurt if we are to take each other on like this," Miley thought aloud, and then whipped her microphone's cord about to latch onto a windowsill. "Let us take the battle into the skies!" she cried, before jerking herself onto the rooftop of a 30-story hotel.

"Well, you've gotten confident lately, Ms. Montana!" Selena proclaimed wildly, jumping onto another hotel about a block away. With their microphones, they could easily still hear and see each other.

"Hmph! Montana Power!!!!!" Miley pulled on her wig and switched out her stylish and flashy boots, endowing herself with the power of her pop idol persona. She posed as well, feeling the power of amazing music wash over her like a warm shower.

"Take this: Sonic Boom!" Selena keyed up her volume by turning up the volume on her microphone, and yelled loudly, sending a wave of sonic energy at Miley—I mean, Hannah.

"Oh, no!" Miley—I mean, Hannah—cried. However, she knew how to counteract this technique. "Magic Shield—go!!" And with a twist of her stylish bracelets, a pentagonal shield of red light appeared, blocking the sonic attack. "Magic Shield—reflect!!" The shield spun in place, and sent the power of Selena's evil song attack back at her.

"Nooooooo!" cried Selena, her pop idol form fading as she returned to normal. She fell to the roof of the hotel, passing out there. The explosion from the reversed attack caused the stolen medallion to fly back into Miley's—I mean, Hannah's hands.

"All right! Now it's time to get back to the governor and give him back this medallion!" Miley—I mean, Hannah posed and leveled up, and learned another song. She then jumped off the roof and jogged back to the governor's office to give him back the medallion. "Here you go, Mr. Governor!"

"Dah, thahnk you, Ms. Montana," the governor said. "Ahm," he began, but stopped, clearly embarrassed.

"What is it, Mr. Governor?" Miley—I mean, Hannah asked.

"Vud you sign dis, please? I am such a fan," the governor asked, holding a piece of fancy paper and a ballpoint pen.

"Ha ha, all right," she said, and she signed it. After doing so, she walked to the balcony of the governor's office as he excitedly ran to show what he had gotten to his wife, and softly sighed as she thought about the foreboding premonition she had about what was about to happen. She couldn't quite be sure as to what was going to happen, but she knew that something was. "Hmm…"


	3. Miley's Room and the Mission Ahead

**Miley Cyrus and the Case of the Missing Hat**

Chapter 2: A Darkness on the Horizon? Rise up, Hannah Montana!!

_meanwhile, somewhere in rural Utah_

A darkened individual wearing a clean cloak, but one that was still as dark as the one Selena was wearing in San Francisco, closed his stylish and then-new flip phone. His voice, milky and warm as warm milk, poured out into the room of the castle that had been built in the ten years that had passed since the Russian submarine had invaded Utah's permanently frozen lake, Lake Frozen, as he spoke, "She failed." His expression was one of the utmost disappointment, and his colleagues, each wearing a cloak of a different color, seemed to be disappointed as well by this news.

"But we knew she would," chimed in Danny Elfman, in his rainbow-colored cloak. The sound of his voice was like listening to someone sawing off the curb of a sidewalk, and next to him, Rosie O'Donnell and Margaret Atwood cringed in repulsion. "She was weak, and she would always have been weak."

"What do you suggest?" the man with the flip phone and dark, clean cloak replied, still looking out the window dramatically. "Most of our operatives are involved in other missions… Miley Cyrus is… an enigma."

"I will take her on myself. Then we shall be rid of her once and for all," Elfman announced, getting to his feet from his seat at the crescent-shaped table.

"I will bring her to you. Make the fight in Reno, Nevada. After we beat her, we'll go gambling and smoke and drink and hire prostitutes," Margaret Atwood yelled.

"It is agreed then," the man with the flip phone agreed. "Miley Cyrus shall be destroyed tomorrow by 4 in the afternoon."

_later, somewhere in suburban Tennessee_

"Miley, I need you to clean your room," Miley's dad, a solid beast of a man with little patience for tomfoolery and even less patience for hatred, loomed over his teenage daughter with his hands on his hips. He, the kind of person who was likely to finish off the last of the milk when there was like two gulps left, and the kind of man who would wash your car if you kept your chores taken care of before going out with your friends, was the best kind of dad Miley could have asked for, but she forgot that sometimes when she was in such a hurry to solve mysteries all the time.

"Okay dad," she said good-naturedly, walking into her bestiary of a living quarters. She had completely covered her walls with posters of various boy bands and comparatively attractive young men with stylish haircuts and outfits, smirking or looking dazed or maybe making bedroom eyes at the camera. She had often purposefully misconstrued the latter as being directed at her, not even taking into account the possibility of the photographer being a highly attractive person him or herself. Probably himself, now that one thinks about it.

Anyway, with a flair of her magical microphone-wand, Miley cleaned her room with no trouble. Her clothes were neatly folded and then hung up in the closet (stiff folded for some reason) and then put into the drawers of her dresser (with the hangers still on). Her walls were washed of their usual mayonnaise glaze once again, ruining a couple of the posters; however, with the magic of her Montana Power, Miley was able to restore them to their original caliber. She almost used her magic on an old, tattered poster depicting the Jonas Bros., but remembered that it was actually a magic portal through which she could hang out with her Jonas friends at any time she was feeling lonesome or in desire for some platonic frivolity. "That's that!" she proclaimed a bit too loudly, making her invisible chimpanzee, Zonkers, jump in surprise.

"Goodness!" Zonkers cried in dismay. "Goodness! Oh my!!"

"Calm down, Zonkers, it's just me and my magical wand powers! We're cleaning the room! Want to help?" she gently asked.

"Well, I suppose. Haven't done a thing all day except for watching Goof Troop on your nostalgic VHS collection from your childhood, not I. Good of your father to have recorded it, that. Goodness knows what I would do with my time if it were not for Goofy's placid face to comfort me in my time of need," Zonkers replied in rhetoric reminisce.

And so the duo set to work, scrubbing the carpets with old-fashioned brushes and sponges, cleaning all the blood from the floor and semen from the doorknobs; when at last the room had been completely cleaned, the telemonitor beeped charmingly and lowered itself from the ceiling, requesting attention from Miley and her invisible primate helper. "CALL FOR MS. MONTANA. CALL FOR MS. MONTANA," a robotic voice announced monotonously.

"Thank you, D.A.R.L.A. Put them on," Miley said kindly, donning the Hannah Montana costume and posing smartly.

A man in sunglasses and a business suit came on the screen, a grim look on his face. "Hannah, it's the Masked Weasel. She's stolen a priceless gemstone from the Museum of Inarticulate Histories in Georgetown, Indiana. We need you to head her off at Grave Pass south of the city."

"Got it. Can do, Chief. Anything else for me while I'm here?" Miley—I mean, Hannah replied with a smile.

"Just bring back that gemstone and we'll bake some of those cookies when you get back, Ms. Montana," the Chief replied with a grin.

"Roger!" she replied with a quick salute, and hopped onto the bed. "D.A.R.L.A., engage BedRocket for departure."

"Affirmative. Destination?" D.A.R.L.A. replied.

"Destination, two miles south of Georgetown, Indiana, United States!" Miley—I mean, Hannah answered.

"Preparing for departure. Would you like a lunch to take on the mission?"

"Okay. What do we have?"

"Your options are limitless, but today's sandwich of the day is Crab Casserole and Lettuce Spun Salad."

"I'll take one of those!" Miley—I mean, Hannah nodded as she picked her lunch, which was quickly made as the rockets began to warm up and was deposited in a safety pouch on the side of the bed.

"Affirmative. Prepare for takeoff: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. BedRocket engaged. Have a safe trip," D.A.R.L.A. announced, and the Chief on the telemonitor waved as Miley—I mean, Hannah took off. Little did she know that there was a trap waiting for her in Grave Pass, and Margaret Atwood was ready to strike…


End file.
